


Off to the Races

by CeruleanChillin



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: 60's, Alcohol, Drug Use, F/M, Oral Sex, Sex, hooking up in an old mansion, model reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanChillin/pseuds/CeruleanChillin
Summary: Take me to the mansion in the Bayou, I want to see who moans louder. Me, or the ghosts.Lincoln Clay x Reader





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Off to the Races by Lana Del Ray.  
> Finishing up another chapter of JINTF after this, it shouldn’t be posted too long after this.  
> I was researching what slang/words were around in the 60’s, and it’s so funny how much of we still use today.

Your manager tried to convince you that with your fragile, new fame, you didn’t have any business in New Bordeaux. You challenged him with the fact that Los Angeles’s glitz blinded people to the fact that the cities weren’t so different. They both were built on scores of bodies that didn’t seem to end, they both could entertain you to your soul like no other place, and they were both run through the tightly clenched fists of powerful men. You didn’t see any other place you wanted to celebrate the successful launch of your modeling career.

It was your first night there, and you’d been directed to the Big Mouth Jazz Club. It didn’t take long, as you pranced through the French Ward dragging your long-suffering manager behind you, to get invited to the party scene. At first glance, the club didn’t seem like what you were looking for, and then you’d been led to the real club below it. It reminded you of your first impression of the city in that way. Placid on the surface, with a tumultuous anything goes underbelly.

Even now, you could feel your manager watching you like hawk, as your body twisted in accordance with the rhythm. He was so worried you’d get into trouble, while you were more worried you wouldn’t. Then again, maybe that worry was a pointless one. You did shots with some fans of your racy first spread, danced on the bar with a group of similar aged college girls, and done a line in the bathroom with a chatty red head.  
In the midst of it all, you’d attracted a pair of intense brown eyes you didn’t mind having on you. You asked about him, and were pleasantly surprised with the answer you got. The redhead told you the mayor may look the part, but the city belonged to someone else. Lincoln Clay, she’d told you. Even his name gave you a chill. After that, any guy who’d looked even remotely attractive to you seemed to have their features blurred out. How could they compare? What she said was reaffirmed to you by the way everyone around him was treating him. Cigarette lit when it was barely out of the case, glass never allowed to be empty, a never-ending parade of women vying for his attention, men puffing out their chest to seem more important than they were. He was homegrown royalty, and you wanted him. You wanted his eyes to stay on you.

Every twist of your hips had been done with him in mind, every dance partner carefully chosen so they wouldn’t trip up your otherwise flawless movements. Eventually, you’d been invited over by one of his men, but you rejected the invitation. You wanted to hear his voice, be approached by him, not a lackey. He was visibly surprised by your reaction when the man relayed your response to him, but he didn’t look upset. It wasn’t long until he found his way to your table, and revealed himself to be what you were hoping for.

\--  
Lincoln had firmly decided you were insane. Ironic coming from him, but true nonetheless. However, he found it unbelievably sexy. The minute he’d gotten you into his red De’Leo Traviata, you poked your full lips into a pout that had him hard in an instant. You wanted him to drive you through the bayou, somewhere no woman had ever asked him to take them. He should’ve known when he saw you it wouldn’t be as simple as a nice hotel room, or one of his more lavish safe houses. You would request something odd.

It hadn’t taken long for his roving eye to spot you in your shimmery tight dress and go-go boots. The cigarette and marijuana smoke swirled around you in such a way, that it seemed like it was only you on the dance floor. He recognized you from a spread in the newest Playboy issue. He’d stolen it from John, who hadn’t shut up about it. He might give it back now that he had the real thing in his car. You were now John’s favorite, and a jealous John was hilarious to him. He couldn’t knock the man’s taste though.

“You really wanna go out to the Bayou?” he glanced at you with an amused expression, but he was already steering the car in that direction.

“What does a model want with the swamp right?” you gave him an expectant look. A look that said you’d been waiting for him to ask something along those lines.

He chuckled. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Well I’m too new to be saddity…yet,” Your mouth curled into a sultry smirk. “So you better hurry before it’s too late.”

“If I’m being honest, ain’t exactly my favorite place in the world.” He was born and raised in in Louisiana, but he couldn’t stand one of the things the state was most known for.

“What if I provide....incentive?” you raised an eyebrow, and bit your lip.

“Depends on what you me-“ his words stopped coming when he felt your slim fingers gliding across his pants. “What-“

“Eyes on the road, that’s driving 101.” You chided, fingers traveling to the buttons on his pants.

“Shit, while I’m driving?”

You didn’t miss a beat in your actions. “Road.” 

“Yes ma’am.” His eyes drifted away from you and back up to the road.

It was easier said than done. He felt his heartbeat increase when you slid his zipper down, and he realized he was nervous. You were about eight years too late to be his first time with the act, but that wasn’t what was making him nervous. It was you. You had a fiery, unpredictable energy to you. One that made it seem like you lacked fear. One that he was enjoying more than he thought he would.

He hissed when he felt your hands encircle him, and if it wasn’t apparent you were serious before, it was now. The tell-tale signs of the approaching Bayou began to show up. Houses got more rundown, and road markers more primitive, and the moon started to become the dominant source of light. He tried to focus, as he knew the roads would get trickier, but you were playing him like an instrument. His knuckles turned white with force, as he gripped the steering wheel when he felt your mouth envelop him.

“Shit.” He whispered, head lolling forward slightly.

You chuckled around him, the vibrations making him flinch, and his grip falter. Between your hands, and your mouth he was on the verge of ripping out the steering wheel. You were alternating pressure, licks, and suction in a way that made his vision tunnel. 

Suddenly you pulled away, though you kept a hand around him. 

“Go faster.”

He shook his head. “Not too smart out here.”

You flicked your thumb over his now sensitive head, and he felt his stomach muscles clench in response. “Come on baby, just a little bit.”

Your eyes, which had been intently studying the road, turned to him. They glittered with something he could quite place, but it made you beautiful. He pressed on the accelerator, and you shifted your eyes from the road, and went back to your previous task. This time you took him further back into your throat, and he fought to keep his eyes from fluttering closed. Suddenly you reached up, and grasped the steering wheel. You yanked it in your direction, pulling the car to the right. The headlights shone on the edge of a covered bridge, which the car was careening towards.

Lincoln quickly took control of the steering wheel, returning the car to its path. Just as he did, his body tensed under an orgasm that wracked his body with convulsions, complicating his task. He barely was able to stop the car, between post-orgasmic laxness, and near-death adrenaline. You pulled away, looking every bit like the cat that ate the canary, and was rewarded with another.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked angrily, chest heaving rapidly.

You gave him that sinful grin, and sat back comfortably. “Me giving you the best orgasm of your life, deny it.”

He couldn’t. You were right, he’d never gotten off anywhere close to that in his life, but he was also right to be upset. He wasn’t feeling particularly suicidal, and apparently, you were.

“You could’ve killed us.” 

“No, I trusted you. I suspected you had very gifted hands.” You calmly responded. “And look, you did.”

“Something is wrong with you, you’re fucking crazy.” He ran a hand over his face, ridding it of cold sweat. 

“Don’t be mad.” You leaned over, tracing kisses all over his sharp jaw. “I’ll tell you the real reason I wanted to come out here.”  
\--  
If anyone else had pulled that on him, he would’ve killed them, and let his least favorite place in the world take care of the body. Then there was you. The woman who’d fill him to the brim with regret if he walked away without having you first. When you revealed what you really wanted out of the Bayou, he was all in.

You wanted him to take you to Eaglehurst Mansion. You’d read about it, and you wanted to see who could moan louder. You, or the ghosts. Where the hell had you come from, and what fucked up thing had he done that translated into the good luck that was his meeting you? Or was he too early in the assumption it was good luck?

He watched you approach the mansion, you seemed to get off on the sight of it. The moonlight hit your profile on the mansion’s steps, and he had fleeting thoughts about if you were human or not. You turned to him, the moon illuminating your hair, and the impish curve of your red lips. He recognized what that look in your eye was now, trouble. You could have asked for the world right then, the psycho stranger that you were, and he would have wrapped it up in an expensive bow. It wasn’t like he wasn’t in an ever-increasing positon to do it anyways.

“Are you coming, or are the stories too much for you?” 

“After that shit you pulled, I have a right to be cautious. Nothin’ to do with superstitions.”

“I made you come so hard I bet your vision blurred. That shit?” you cocked your head slightly, face twisted in a faux clueless expression.

“No, the shit where they wouldn’t have been able to tell us apart from the car.”

You tilted your head back, and a laugh like wind chimes spilled from your lips. “No that’s not it. I think Mr. New Bordeaux is scared of ghosts.”

Lincoln chuckled, leaning back against the hood of his car. “That it? You rile me up and I do what you want?”

You walked down the steps slowly, and he subconsciously licked his lips catching a peek of your upper thigh. He rose to a standing position, easily towering over you. Those wicked hands reached out to him, and cupped the collar of his dress shirt. You leaned in, and he could smell the scent of cocoa butter that clung to your skin.

“I was thinking more incentive.”

“What do you have in mind now? Kamikaze fucking? Off the roof? Off the balcony?”

“Kinky,” You smirked. “Maybe next time. I was thinking you pick a place in there, any place, and do what comes to mind first.”

That wild look crossed your features again, as you stepped back from him. “But if that’s too crazy…”

\--  
Lincoln Clay was the embodiment of everything you’d wanted out of your trip to New Bordeaux. One look at him, and you’d known. You’d already gotten more out of one night with him than you had in weeks of dating guys in Los Angeles. He’d picked a room you imagined at some point may have been a ball room, and immediately took control. His hands molded themselves to your body, and began the task of mapping out your curves. It wasn’t long until your dress was bunched around your middle, and your thin lace panties were gone altogether. 

You grunted, as your bare back hit a weathered column. It would definitely bruise, and your manager would lose it, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. Not when Lincoln was exhibiting enough strength to drive into you, and support you like you weighed nothing to him. You felt the muscles in his arms ripple, and it occurred to you, you might not. 

His lips traced over the pulse in your neck, teasing goosebumps to form on your skin. The cool of the column barely registered against the heat he was causing. He shifted his hips, and your eyes rolled back. The stretch, his bruising kisses, and the heat were all working together to draw forth a sort of euphoria in you. Your nails raked down his back, his raspy groan making you hotter. He captured your mouth again, one hand grasping your throat.  
“I’m gonna come.” You gasped against his lips, legs tightening around his hips.

He gripped your waist, and focused on keeping his rhythm from faltering at your announcement. Your hands delved into his black curls and held on for what you knew was coming. He took you by your chin, and lifted your head to meet his gaze.

“Don’t look away.”

You trembled at the dark tone of voice he used to give the command. Your gaze didn’t budge though, his dark brown eyes focused solely on you. It heightened your pleasure greatly to know the city’s most important man was entirely focused on you. He filled you once again with a deep thrust, and you cried out and let go. You weakly clung to him as he fucked you through the tremors. 

You pushed your lips against the shell of his ear, and kissed it gently. Your hoarse voice whispered soft, dirty words of encouragement, as he sought his own release. He pressed his forehead into your shoulder, clearly approaching his second orgasm that night. His hands tightened on your waist, and you had a fleeting thought of your manager’s complaining again. You cupped his face, and kissed him hard. He released, and let out a moan from so deep in his chest, you felt it in your own. You rubbed his back, guiding him through the rapturous feeling.  
He pressed open mouth kisses to your neck, as he eased your feet down to floor. You sank down to the floor against the column.

He chuckled shaking his head.

“Shut up. It’s your fault, I can’t feel my legs.”  
\--  
“You look fucking amazing in moonlight, maybe my manager will love me again if I bring you to him to scout.” You teased, but he did look amazing. Brown skin awash in cool ivory light, and visibly, thoroughly fucked.

He laughed, his expression a mix of being amused and relaxed. “As amazing for my reputation as modeling would be, I’ll pass.”

“Well I need something. He’s gonna kill me for running off, and coming back looking like someone’s meal.” 

“To be fair, I didn’t get to eat you yet.” He fingers glided down his shirt, pushing each button into place with ease.

“Yet? Do you wanna see me again Clay?” you turned to him so he could re-zip your dress.

He kneeled and kissed the base of your spine. He pressed soft kisses into your skin until he reached your shoulders, the zipper following all the while.

“Am I gonna see you again? Yes.”

You whirled around, and poked his chest. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Sounds like you still got an answer.” He smirked, and rolled his shoulders with a shrug.

“Fine, but don’t let any other girls give you near-death orgasms until then. It cheapens it for me.”

Lincoln cupped your face and brought you to him, chuckling. “You’re batshit, you know that right?”

**Author's Note:**

> I might add another part to this at some point. I like the reader’s character in this, she could be fun to write. I think the challenge is how would he react to a woman like that? He seemed very together in the game, whereas the reader is not.


End file.
